The Poor Fella

Lester Haye’s stick gloves
Caught bags of bad blood
Intercepted hand grenades-
But we aged
And the channel changed…
The twilight of civilization
No grace
A wasteland…
The inventor of options
Has dropped dead from exhaustion
Buried in a shallow plot
Next to the movie store parking lot
A TV in the coffin ceiling
Lawnmower blades churning…
I shall draw
My blunderbuss
The fuss and flood
The pulled plug-
Collapsing stacks of
Crutches boxes
Our hair eating
Our outfits…
Sentences beaten senseless
By babies wearing sunglasses
Bad Bar Mitzvah Party DJ’s
Halved by helicopter
Blades…
Frenzied men
Place desperate bets
On epileptic seizure contents
I sent a memo out about it
But no one must have got it…
He was all
Bruised and cut
And the stuff
From his pockets
Spilled on the ground
After the fracus
The Poor Fella
He didn’t know
What he got
Himself into
Shooting his
Mouth off like that!